Then, Mycroft remembers when Sherlock told him his dream. How he blatantly told him that it was impossible and that he would do better in an office setting. He then remembers how Sherlock’s eyes died, his shoulders slumped. He remembers how Sherlock looked up at him with eyes full of indifference and ice.
Most of all, Mycroft remembers how the child in Sherlock died and a piece of himself, the cold, arrogant, calculating piece, latched onto his little brother and stole him away. Mycroft remembers that it was his fault.